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This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Friday, August 31, 2012

As
in past years, we will hold a Haiku Death Match, (not a "death match" per se, but a Head-to-Head Haiku
Slam), at GumptionFest VII. GumptionFest VII will be
Friday to Sunday, Sept. 14 to 16, along Coffee Pot Drive and State Route 89A in West Sedona.

The Haiku Death Match will be held Saturday, Sept. 15 at 5 p.m. at the Szechuan Martini Bar, on the north side of State Route 89A.

Challenge last year's champion, Teresa Newkirk,
and vie for the
Grand Prize of $17

A Haiku Poetry Slam is a competitive poetry duel that is a subgenre of poetry slam. The Haiku Poetry Slam is a prominent feature at the annual National Poetry Slam, replete with full costume for the host, in the style of former NPS hosts Daniel Ferri and Jim Nave and current NPS host Taz Yamaguchi.

At GumptionFest VII, we will attempt to hold a Haiku Death Match as similar to the NPS Haiku Poetry Slam version as possible.

Can you beat The Klute, the 2010 GumptionFest Grand Haikuster?

What is haiku?
Haiku
(俳句) is a form of Japanese poetry consisting of 17 syllables in three
metrical phrases of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables.

Japanese
haiku typically contain a kigo, or seasonal reference, and a kireji
or verbal caesura. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a
single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three
lines, to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku.

What is slam haiku?
Slam haiku used in a Haiku Death Match
is far simpler: Use of three or fewer lines of 17 syllables. Slam
haiku can be anything from a single 17-syllable line or simply 17
words.

A standard Haiku Death Match is conducted thus:
The host randomly draws the names of two poets, known as haikusters, from the pool of competitors.
The haikusters adorn headbands of two colors: Red and Not-Red (white).
Red Haikuster and Host bow to each other.
Not-Red Haikuster and Host bow to each other.
Red Haikuster and Not-Red Haikuster bow to each other.
Red Haikuster goes first.
The
Red Haikuster reads his or her haiku twice. The audience does not
clap or make noise (usually, though, they laugh or vocalize, but, of
course, we must pretend that this is completely unacceptable).
The Not-Red Haikuster reads his or her haiku twice. Again, the audience does not clap or make noise.
The host waits for the three judges to make their choice for winner, then signals them to hold aloft their Red or Not-Red flag.
Simple majority (3-0 or 2-1) determines the winner.
The host asks the audience to demonstrate “the sound of one hand clapping,” i.e., silence, then “the sound of two hands clapping,” at which point they can finally applaud. The mock ceremony involving the audience is half the fun.
The winning haikuster then goes first.
Depending
on the round, the winner will be best 3 of 5, 4 of 7, best 5 of 9,
etc., of a number determined beforehand for each round.
After the duel, Red Haikuster and Not-Red Haikuster bow to each other and shake hands. The next duel begins.Rules for the GumptionFest VI Haiku Death Match:

Titles:
Haikusters can read their haiku titles before they read the haiku.
(This gives the haikusters technically more syllables to put the haiku
in context, but the haiku itself must still be only 17 syllables. While
this is not “pure” Haiku Death Match rules, it’s much more fun for
the audience.

Originality: Poets must be
the sole authors of the haiku they use in competition. Plagiarized
haiku are grounds for disqualification. We all love Matsuo Bashō, but
he’s 300 years too dead to compete.

On-page or memorized?: Poets can read from the page, book, journal, notepad, etc.

Preparation: Poets can have
haiku written beforehand or write them in their head while at the mic.
As long as the haiku are 17 syllables, we don’t care how, when or
from where the haiku originates.

Rounds: Will be determined by the number of haikusters who sign up to compete.

Quantity of haiku needed:
Depends on the number of rounds. 30 haiku will likely be enough for
poets who push rounds to the last haiku needed and go all the rounds,
but 50 to 100 gives haikusters enough material to be flexible in
competition. Most veteran haikusters have several hundred to compete
with.

Censorship: Adult themes and
language are acceptable. There may be children present so you may
have to deal with their parents afterward, but that’s your call.

If your opponent reads a serious or deep haiku, read one that is
more serious or more profound, or go on the opposite tack and read
something funny.

If your opponent reads a funny haiku, read one that is funnier, or go on the opposite tack and read something serious or deep.

If your opponent makes fun of you, make fun of yourself even bigger
or make fun of them. A good head-to-head haiku can work wonders and
often wins a Haiku duel. For instance, my “Damien Flores Haiku,” “Easy
way to win: / Damien is 20, Officer, / and he's drunk."

If you’re on stage and you get an idea for a haiku, feel free to
write it down immediately. That might be the next round’s haiku that
wins you the duel.

Have a good time. Even if don't get past the first round, it's still a great time for all.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

While I normally find burning poetry a sacrilege, I am sending a copy of “Detroit (while I was away)” by David Blair with Azami for her to burn at the Temple of Juno when she leaves for Burning Man in about an hour.

Even though I know the air hangs
like a dead dog’s ass over River Rouge,
I still miss you. Your fenced in gardens
filled with sustenance and Saturday

evening draped over a back alley porch.
The September stench that creeps
slow as a Woodward bus on Sunday.
Black tires crawling in summer heat.

Your acoustic guitars and amplified hair.
Your rows of long thin buildings,
arranged on a young man’s head.
Last time I saw you, a woman stood

on a corner conducting traffic.
Her own sunken opera.
A crack pipe baton. Car horns joined
in like a bad man cruising a dream.
She stood on the stage of Cass and Mack

dying to reach Joy Rd. The moon left
its spotlight on a backdrop of burnt buildings.
Yellow police tape posed like velvet rope.
Do Not Cross.

A picket line of teens careened down Cass
past broken glass that spread
like urban sprawl, a Diego Rivera mural
painted across the DIA wall.

Another time I saw you,
steam barreled out of your manhole covers
like you were about to explode. A soul imbibed
forty ounces of courage so it could head back to the axle plant

on Lynch Road, Jefferson or some other
conveyor belt street that gets everyone moving
in step like a Temptation line dance.
22 ounces of sweat and iron hidden in a bathroom stall.

Away from the plant tours and fat cats,
shop stewards and snitches. I remember you
old friend. I’m in another city now.
But Martin Luther King St. always looks the same.

It just doesn’t intersect with Rosa Parks,
12th Street where ‘67 fires started,
named for a woman who chose you beyond
a boycott in Montgomery, then rode

the front of that big old dog
straight home to you Detroit, I love you...

from your basketball sun, that hangs in the sky
then falls, only to bounce back up tomorrow. Down
to your alligator shoes. I’ll kiss you on the river.
Meet you in the middle of a suitcase and wonder

do you think of me this way...?
Do you even know I’ve gone? Say my name, Detroit.
I pray you claim me. A small town boy.
Born in New Jersey, but made in Detroit.
My heart beats like tool and die for you.
like horse power and pistons for you,
while mechanized, lumpenized robot
zombies haunt Mack Avenue.

Here they come, a gang of buildings in tank tops,
Mack Trucks in do rags, marching
down to Hastings Street.
Though I never knew you back when
you wore your onyx necklace
like a tire around your neck, I witness

the aftermath. Dipping your blue black hands
in electric currents of music and art. The circumference
of Outer Drive. Moross and Joy.
Paris of the Midwest they called you.

And every time ‘67 fires or Halloween came around,
you lived up to it. The year I was born, you blew up.
I heard it. I came when I could. I’ve never left.
I stay, even when I go. Chosen heart.
Adopted town. From Belle Isle to Eight Mile.

Chocolate city where the mothership landed.
Late night downtown and the peacocks are out
on Fourth Street, calling to billboards
that hover over highways, telling stories to streetlamps.
The moon is a plate full of soul food, Mexican food.
Pierogies and paczkis. Kafta and curry
We mix and separate, mix and separate.

Each Prentis stoop is a garage rock chord
strummed and banged, like a car mechanics sledge.
A man screams beneath the Ambassador bridge.
Another drums on plastic tubs for tourists.
“Will work for food” is a piece of poetry
scribbled on an art house wall.

Festival wizards, Saunderson, Atkins and May.
The Big Three. De trois, of three.
Black panthers, white panthers and Lions, oh my.
Tight boys in rock pants, the hustlers in Palmer Park.
Lovers, thugs and blues men with axes
sharp enough to cut down another forced overtime shift.
The sun dresses flowing like the Detroit River. Supremely
turning, bending with the weight of the city. Detroit,

your beautiful hair woven women, putting on gloves
and grabbing tools next to me on the assembly line,
teaching me what perseverance and being a brother is
all about. Overtime fists clocking. These are the hands
that braid hair and lock dread, cook meat that falls
right off the bone into fat, black pots of collards working harder
and harder...
and harder still...

...so step on, Detroit,
dribble and shoot,
pass and play,
struggle and fight,
darken and light,
drive and impel,
riot and quell, pick the steel burrs
off the cross members at the front of the Jeep Cherokee.
Look what we have made you. Steam and steel.
Still, that’s how hard I love you.

David Blair
Sept. 19, 1967 -- July 23, 2011

David Alan Blair “Blair”, age 43, born Sept. 19, 1967, passed away Saturday, July 23, 2011. David grew up in Newton, N.J., but came to call Detroit his adopted home. He is the son of Hildegard Blair and Herbert Blair.Blair was an award-winning, multi-faceted artist: poet, singer-songwriter, writer, performer, musician, community activist and teacher. In the words of Metro Times journalist Melissa Giannini, “Blair focused his work on the hope that rises from the ashes of despair.”A 2010 Callaloo Fellow and a National Poetry Slam Champion, his first book of poetry, Moonwalking, was recently released by Penmanship Books. Blair, as a solo artist, and with The Urban Folk Collective, self-released more than seven records in the last ten years. His most recent album, The Line, with his band The Boyfriends, was released in 2010 on Repeatable Silence Records.Throughout his life, Blair performed at venues, large and small, across the nation and around the world. He was nominated for seven Detroit Music Awards, including a 2007 nod for Outstanding Acoustic Artist. He was named Real Detroit Weekly Readers Poll’s Best Solo Artist and The Metro Times Best Urban Folk Poet. In 2007, he won the Seattle-based BENT Writing Institute Mentor Award.As well as being the recipient of numerous awards, he taught classes and lectured on poetry and music in Detroit Public Schools, The Ruth Ellis Center, Hannan House Senior Center, the YMCA of Detroit, and at various universities, colleges and high schools across the country.Blair has friends and fans on almost every continent. He will be greatly missed by the loved ones he left all too early. He is preceded in death by his father, Herbert Blair. He is survived by his mother, Hildegard (Smith), siblings Herbert Blair (who resides in Pennsylvania), Tony Blair (New Jersey), Walter Blair (Florida), Joy Blair Swinson (New Hampshire) and many nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Kevin Holmes is the Santa Cruz Slammaster, Team Coach, and Anchor Poet.

Kevin led the first Santa Cruz slam team to a 3rd place finish at the 2010 National Poetry Slam's Group Piece finals. In 2011, as a poet coach, he returned to NPS to tie for 5th.

Kevin Holmes (famed Santa Cruz Slam Poet) Came up with Dusty Rose to Feature at the Chicoslam. Flmed April 15, 2010 in 1080i HiDefBefore co-founding the new Santa Cruz Slam, Kevin's surreal political commentary somehow won a 2009 Berkley finals and took a top 20 finish at the Individual World Poetry Slam. Kevin enjoys homemade deep fried tofu, Doctor Who, and dry gin.

Kevin has been involved with the University of California Santa Cruz's campus slam team since 2004 as poet and then a coach. In 2009 his coaching pressed the UCSC team to a 2nd place finish at the Collegiate Union Poetry Slam Invitational.

When not lingering around dimly lit rooms with microphones, Kevin works with special needs students.

The first attempts to reach Mars (1960) and Venus (1961) failed, yet triumph followed quickly. Of the nearly 200 solar, lunar, and interplanetary missions depicted on this map, most have been Earth's closest neighbors. As rocketry, navigation, and imaging have become ever more capable and reliable, the planets and many of their moons have been examined in detail. The New Horizons mission to Pluto is under way, as is the MESSENGER mission to Mercury. Others not yet launched, perhaps not yet dreamed, await. --National Geographic

Monday, August 20, 2012

In addition to winning the 2009 and 2010 National Poetry Slams with Saint Paul, Sierra DeMulder ranked 9th at the Individual World Poetry Slam, 11th at the Women of the World Poetry Slam and coached MacAlester College to Final Stage at College Union Poetry Slam Invitational2010. She was awarded Best Female Poet at CUPSI 2009 and in January 2010, her first full-length manuscript, "The Bones Below: Poems by Sierra DeMulder," was published in 2010 by Write Bloody Publishing. She released her second book, New Shoes on a Dead Horse, in 2012, coincidentally on my birthday, March 12.

Poetry Observed is committed to producing high quality videos of performance poetry, off the stage. The first series features Twin Cities-based poets and was produced in collaboration with Button Poetry.

The poem, "Snakes & Bees," that sent Slam New Orleans on to win the 2012 National Poetry Slam. The team scored a 27.7, 0.4 higher than the second-place team and SNO never looked back.
The poets are, front row, left to right, Kataalyst, Tarriona Tank Ball and Sha'Condria ICon Sibley with Akeem Martin in the back.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

the last thing he remembered
was her étouffée
the way shrimp and chicken
could fall apart in his mouth
the texture of onion,
the soft burn of the bell pepper,
the crunch of celery
the way a drop of saffron
could flavor a whole meal
for a moment
after the alarm sounded
after the shock of fear subsided in his spine
he was there again
in her Baton Rouge kitchen
surrounded by the smell of her labors

he had seen a blowout on another rig
before BP
before Deepwater Horizon
everyone jumped to their posts
did their jobs
and when all was said and done
insurance wrote off the damage
and they thanked heaven no one got hurt

for a moment
he flashed back to that rig
hoped it would repeat

and as the rumble rose
his eyes dimmed
the world fell away from focus
and he could tasteher étouffée in his throat

the moment was too quick to prepare
he saw the faces of the men around him
he had seen them all today on the rig —
they were 11 roughnecks who would go home
when the job was over
they were strangers before the rig
and they would be afterward
they always wanted to be forgettable
for a roughneck,
to have one’s name known
means you’ve fucked up
you screwed the boss’s daughter
you carelessly killed a man
or you died on a rig

when it came
the rip roar of steel and crude
swallowed in a sun
the last thing he remembered
was her étouffée
the last thought
was the smell of Cajun cooking
the feel of her arms around him
as the bowels of the earth
those billions of animals
compressed into oil
buried for millions of years
saw the sky again
released the rage of imprisonment
ignited into fire
rose into the sky
carried his disintegrated memories
with them
rising like steam
from a cooking pan
of her étouffée

the earth hemorrhaged billions of gallons
like a head wound
across the Gulf
to her, it was bloodstain

denied his body,
she collapsed
the first time she touched the oily surf
prayed that somewhere in the black crude
there was some drop of him
some molecule of her husband
the size of a saffron seed

after she walked home
barefoot from beach across the bayou
she refused to wash
the oil would fall away
but he would hold her
sink into her skin
flavor her like saffron
she has no gravesite to visit
but she can smell him in the kitchen
any time she cooks étouffée

Deepwater Horizona victims

Jason C. Anderson, 35, Midfield, Texas, father of two.

Aaron Dale Burkeen, 37, Philadelphia, Miss., married, father of two (14-year-old daughter Aryn and 6-year-old son Timothy), died four days before his 38th birthday.

Donald Clark, 49, Newellton, La., married to Sheila Clark.

Stephen Ray Curtis, 39, Georgetown, La., married and had two teenagers. Taught his son to hunt and play baseball and was active in his church.

Gordon L. Jones, 28, Baton Rouge. Wife Michelle Jones was nine months pregnant with their second son when he died.

Keith Blair Manuel, 56, Gonzales, La., father of three (Kelli Taquino, Jessica Manchester and Ashley Jo Manuel). Engaged to Melinda Becnel. Had season tickets to Louisiana State University baseball and football games.

Dewey A. Revette, 48, State Line, Miss., married with two daughters. Had been with Transocean for 29 years.

drive the needle deeper
we need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjob
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none

used to have our own,
but never enough
I found some pure stuff
bought it cheap
right next door
who knew the neighbor was a dealer?
had to go under the water
not so easy and finding it in the dirt
but don’t matter none
once it goes in
you don’t think about where it came from

got it pure and cheap
got it from B.P.
always trust a Limey, I say
they talk like us and don’t do no wrong

drive the needle deeperwe need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjob
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none

we don’t trust the Saudi dealer anymorehe’s got too many issues
beats his wife for speaking out
little brothers always bitchin’
’bout how we smack ’em around
Saudi thinks we like him
but we won’t even know his name
if he didn’t have any

his crew don’t trust us nonelast time we went there
one o’ them ragheads
left us with a bloody lip
knocked over a few towers in our neighborhood
but we done fucked him up good

we only go to the Saudi for this junk
when we’re desperate
— and when we’re armed, rollin’ with our boysgot to show ’em who’s boss
if you want a fair deal

had some homegrown
but it’s gone bunk
always need more
if we’re going to make it ride
and if it runs out
we still got the Saudihe’s eager to deal
if he don’t sell to the Chinaman first
but if he do
we’ll just go back with bigger guns
bleed him dry till he’s done
maybe go visit the Chinaman
sure, he packs heat
and rides with his boys
but I think we can take him
We’re ’Mericans,
and we don’t take no shitJohn Wayne wasn’t no pussy
we're bad motherfuck'rs

drive the needle deeper
we need this to fuel us
drive it deeper
till it hits
suck it out like Mother Nature
was givin’ a blowjobit hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none

spill a little, no big deal
always more where this came from
if you lose control
let it flow, let it burn
give Mother Nature a facial
it hurts, yeah, but hurts more
when we don’t have none

CFG the slam poet

Fox the Poet

Christopher Fox Grahamis a Montana-born boy raised in Arizona to be a poet, artist, and singer with unending wanderlust. He's fascinated with art and other shiny things, a good story will keep him captivated and silent as he soaks you in.

In truth, he is good at only three things: using language, kissing, and driving.

He has performed for MTV and on The Travel Channel's "Your Travel Guide" episode of Sedona. Aside from winning more than 100 poetry slams, he's published four books of poetry, most recently The Opposite of Camouflage, and won the 2012 Dylan Thomas Award for Excellence in the Written and Spoken Word.

A slam poet since 2001, he currently hosts the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in West Sedona.

For nearly four years, he was the senior Copy Editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, and an arts reporter and a columnist. He wrote a weekly column "Sedona Underground," about the city's art scene. After leaving in May 2008, he was asked to return as Assistant Managing Editor in October 2009. He was promoted to News Editor in April 2012 and in August 2012 was promoted to Managing Editor, overseeing the Sedona Red Rock News,The Camp Verde Journal, Cottonwood Journal Extra, The Scene and The Village View.

He has won numerous personal and editorial newsroom awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including three awards for Best Headline.

He was the managing editor of Kudos, a weekly arts and entertainment publication of the Verde Independent. He was also managing editor of The Villager, a weekly news publication in the Village of Oak Creek.

He is one the six coordinators of GumptionFest a kickass, annual, one-day grassroots arts festival held in Sedona, this year in September. More than 100 artists and bands exhibit their work for free to more than 1,200 people.

In 2005, he founded the Sedona Poetry Open Mic, which he hosted biweekly at Java Love Cafe on second and fourth Tuesdays until 2012. A former venue included Random Acts of Coffee, in Sedona, which closed in June 2005. The venue named a drink after him which one can order an various coffeehouses in Sedona. The "Topher": A large soy chai with two (or three) shots of espresso. Serve iced or hot. He was member of the city of Sedona Child and Youth Commission for two years and chairman for another two years before the commission was dissolved in 2008.

He has been unofficially named "The Voice of the Underground," in Sedona for his column "Sedona Underground" that appeared every Friday in The Scene. for more than three years, featuring more than 150 artists.

He won the 2004 NORAZ Poets Grand Slam, the 2005 Arizona All-Star Poetry Slam, and was a member of the 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2012 and 2013 Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Teams. He was also a National Poetry Slam bout manager in 2003, venue manager in 2011, and Sedona Slammaster in 2012, 2013 and 2014, sponsoring the city's first three Sedona National Poetry Slam Teams.

He believes that all slam poets are Jedis.

He has been thrown out of six movie theaters, 18 bars, a Las Vegas nightclub with his girlfriend, a public pool, two malls, four golf courses, one bowling alley, five dorms, one airport, one pet store, a now-defunct nonprofit poetry organization ... and Canada. Seriously.